Gallery Walk

Sydney Greeley

I’d like to think I’m a masterpiece, sculpted from the finest marble and colored in with

great care. The centerpiece of a museum, like Mona Lisa in The Louvre. Details carefully drawn on my body that you might not even notice at first glance. All imperfections simply covered up with a gingerly sewn dress and a thick coating of face paint. My life is constantly on display and my emotions are unchanging. Art does not feel like humans do. A happy facade and crooked smile remain etched upon my face like a tattoo I regret. My purpose is to feed others joy, no matter what I want. Sometimes I feel like I have no purpose other than to please those around me. I am not special, I’m an eyesore. I am not the award winning song, but merely the first draft hiding in a notebook. Critics line up and down the block to find my every flaw. When people come too close they start to notice that my brush strokes are sloppy and I’m stained by the blood, sweat, and tears put into my creation. Trying to avoid their negative evaluations is like hiding in the center of an empty room. I continue to stand there and smile, because art does not feel like humans do. Why can’t I express my emotions like regular people do? What is wrong with me? It’s hard to figure out who you are when you live in a house made of glass, constantly exposed to the judgmental world. I’d like to think I’m a masterpiece, but how can I be when everyone overlooks my beauty?